Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYACQHSP2KCVXV3NZA6QDRT

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly against the rain-slicked pavement, its glow bleeding into the puddles like spilled ink. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something sharper—old leather, maybe, or the faintest trace of gun oil. Rory paused on the threshold, her breath fogging the glass door before she pushed it open. The bell above the door chimed, a sound she hadn’t heard in years. The bar was quieter than she remembered. The usual hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of laughter—all of it muted, as if the place itself had exhaled. She scanned the dimly lit space, her fingers tightening around the strap of her messenger bag. The back corner was empty. The booth by the jukebox was empty. Even the pool table stood silent, its cues leaning against the felt like forgotten bones. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a glass of something amber and slow. His auburn hair was streaked with grey now, thicker than she recalled, and his beard—neat, precise—covered half his jaw. He wore a dark suit, the lapels slightly frayed at the edges, like he’d worn it too many times to count. His left leg gave a slight hitch as he turned, just enough to catch her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then he smiled, slow and knowing, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along. “Well,” he said, his voice rougher than she remembered, “if it isn’t the girl who used to steal my whiskey.” Rory’s pulse jumped. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “Silas.” His name tasted like ash on her tongue. She stepped forward, her boots clicking against the polished wood. The years between them stretched thin, brittle, like the paper of an old letter. “You look like hell,” he said, and she almost laughed—because he did too. She slid onto the stool beside him, the leather groaning under her weight. The barkeep—a young man with a sharp jaw and a bored expression—glanced at them before turning back to his phone. Silas didn’t order another drink. He just watched her, his hazel eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. “You’re still here,” she said finally. “So are you.” A silence settled between them, thick and unspoken. Rory traced a finger along the rim of her glass, though she hadn’t ordered anything. The condensation beaded under her touch. “You look different,” she said. Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound like a man who’d heard that a thousand times before. “So do you.” She wanted to ask him what he meant. She wanted to ask how he’d ended up here, in this bar, in this life. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled envelope, pressing it onto the bar between them. “Found this in my mailbox this morning,” she said. “Thought you might want it.” Silas didn’t touch it. He just stared at it, his fingers curling slightly around the edge of his glass. “You always were the one who could find things,” he murmured. Rory’s chest tightened. “I didn’t know where else to send it.” Another silence. This one heavier. Silas finally picked up the envelope, his thumb brushing over the stamp before he tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible. Rory watched his face as he read it, his expression shifting from surprise to something sharper, colder. “This is from Prague,” he said at last, his voice low. “1998.” Rory nodded. “I found it in an old case file. Someone must’ve left it behind.” Silas folded the paper carefully, his movements precise, controlled. “You’ve been digging.” “Just looking for answers.” He let out a dry laugh. “You always did have a habit of digging where you weren’t supposed to.” Rory’s fingers twitched. “I needed to know.” Silas studied her for a long moment, his gaze sharp enough to cut. “Did you?” She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The barkeep slid a fresh glass of whiskey toward her, untouched. Rory picked it up, the amber liquid catching the dim light. She took a sip, the burn of it grounding her. Silas drained his own glass in one smooth motion, then set it down with a quiet *thud*. “You ever think about what happened that night?” Rory’s breath hitched. “Every damn day.” He nodded, as if she’d confirmed something he already knew. “I thought you’d moved on.” “I did,” she said, though her voice cracked. “I thought I had.” Silas leaned back against the stool, his limp more pronounced now. “You look like you haven’t.” Rory’s hands clenched around her glass. “I’m not the same person I was then.” “No,” he agreed. “You’re not.” The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken. Rory could feel it pressing down on her, heavy as the weight of all the years they’d lost. “You ever see her?” she asked suddenly. Silas’s fingers stilled on the bar. “Eva?” Rory nodded. “Once,” he said quietly. “Years ago. She was different.” “How?” “Like you.” Rory exhaled sharply. “She’s still in Cardiff.” Silas’s gaze darkened. “She should’ve come back.” “She had her reasons.” “So did I.” Rory’s throat tightened. “You left.” “I had to.” “You always did.” Silas didn’t deny it. He just stared at her, his eyes reflecting the dim light of the bar. “You ever think about what you lost?” he asked. Rory’s chest ached. “Every damn day.” Silas reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver key. He slid it across the bar toward her, the metal cold under her fingers. “This was in the envelope,” he said. “With the letter.” Rory turned it over in her palm, the weight of it familiar, foreign. “What is it?” “A key to something you should’ve had years ago.” She looked up at him, her breath catching. “What does it open?” Silas’s expression softened, just slightly. “Your past.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the key. “I don’t want my past.” “You never did.” The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken words. Rory set the key back on the bar, her fingers brushing against the envelope. “You ever think about coming back?” she asked. Silas studied her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. “I’m here.” Rory’s breath hitched. “You’re here.” “And you’re here.” She looked down at the key, then back at him. “What now?” Silas took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving hers. “Now,” he said, “we drink.” Rory picked up her glass, the amber liquid catching the light. She took a sip, the burn of it grounding her. “To old friends,” she said. Silas clinked his glass against hers. “To the ones we lost.” The barkeep slid another drink toward Silas, this one untouched. Rory watched as he picked it up, his movements slow, deliberate. “You ever think about what happened that night?” she asked again. Silas’s fingers tightened around his glass. “Every damn day.” Rory’s breath caught. “Me too.”